


Sugar Dust

by gobstoneswithhector



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 03:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18932542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gobstoneswithhector/pseuds/gobstoneswithhector
Summary: There’s been an abnormal amount of unconcealed magical activity in a Muggle neighborhood, and with the secrecy of the wizarding world at stake, dedicated Ministry worker Scorpius Malfoy is on the case. After another trip to the nearby bakery, of course.





	1. Chapter One

“Excuse me! Pardon me! On your left! YOUR LEFT.”

His cries were not enough. In a desperate attempt to avoid running over several fellow humans, Scorpius Malfoy turned the handlebars of his bicycle so sharply he lost his balance and careened right into a storefront. The bike flew out from under him and slid into the cobbled road. Scorpius hurtled in the other direction, landing on his chest and the palms of his hands with a loud “Oof.”

The pedestrians who had dodged out of his way while he was clumsily cycling through the winding street crowded around him, murmuring to each other. 

“Are you okay?” asked a voice that seemed muffled and very far away. 

Scorpius rolled over on the ground. His head lolled to the side and he cautiously opened one eye. He could see his bike a short distance away. The front wheel, now bent, spun feebly on its axle. He could hear a faint squeak with each rotation. 

Scorpius brought his shaking hands to his face and looked at his palms. The pale flesh was rubbed raw and lightly bleeding. Tiny rocks and dirt were embedded in the skin. He flexed each hand and winced at the resulting pain. 

“Are you okay?” asked the voice again, clearer and louder this time. 

Scorpius looked up and blinked. The upside-down figure of a young man slowly came into focus. A tanned face sported an impressive five o’clock shadow even though it wasn’t nearly eight. Dark eyebrows were raised in concern. Two big eyes were bright, brilliantly green, and shifting nervously as they surveyed the scene below. Freckles spanned cheeks and the bridge of the nose, and a disheveled mass of black hair swooped in all directions. 

It all came together to form the face of a beautiful angel.

“Am I—am I dead?” Scorpius asked. He blinked again several times in rapid succession. 

The young man’s eyebrows knitted together. 

“What?”

Scorpius struggled to prop himself on his elbows, carefully avoiding his palms making contact with the pavement and cobble below. He took a deep breath and winced again at the pain, this time in his chest. 

“Is this the afterlife?” 

The young man gaped back at him. 

“This is York. Did you hit your head, mate?”

Scorpius took another breath, inhaling sharply through his nose and screwing his eyes shut as he tried to regain composure. So he wasn’t dead. Just rattled. And in the middle of a street, apparently. 

He opened his eyes and looked around. A small crowd was nearby, staring and listening nosily. The bike still lay on the road, looking like a pathetic, misshapen heap of metal. The angel was still above him, bent low, hands on his knees, and now looking quite bored. He wore a green hooded jacket and black trousers. Scuffed white trainers. He was probably the same age as Scorpius. An overstuffed shopping tote with SHAMBLES MARKET printed on it sat at his feet. 

“Sorry,” Scorpius began, getting to his feet. His legs were shaking as well and he stumbled slightly. The young man grabbed him by the waist. 

“Let’s get you… over here,” he said, and nodded toward a patio table outside a restaurant just a few steps across the narrow lane. They walked together, slowly and with Scorpius limping, to a seat. The young man helped Scorpius sit down and then left to fetch the bike. He brought it over and propped it against another chair. 

“You slammed into that shop pretty hard,” the young man said with a nod of his head toward a brick building, which, now that Scorpius wasn’t colliding with it, looked to be the store of a chocolatier. The proprietor was sweeping up after a fallen bin that Scorpius must’ve knocked over. “And the ground it looks like.” 

“I can feel that,” said Scorpius, pressing on his chest and ribs with his fingers. Nothing seemed broken. Just badly scraped and probably bruised. His hands stung. 

“Do you want me to call someone?” The young man had taken Scorpius’s hands in his own and turned them over, palms up. He brought them to his mouth and began to gently blow on them. 

The burning from his injuries temporarily subsided as Scorpius felt his heart lift up and up and up. 

“I—I—I—” Scorpius stammered, unable to get a coherent word out. 

The young man frowned, stopped what he was doing, and lowered Scorpius’s hands and let go. 

“Listen, I have to be somewhere. Can I call someone for you? I mean, I don’t have a phone on me, but—”

“No, it’s okay,” Scorpius said, surprised he even got words out. “I’ll be fine. Just gonna rest here a bit.” He leaned back uncomfortably in his chair. 

The stranger had already gotten up and gathered his bag from the market. He cocked his head to the side. 

“Look where you’re going next time, yeah?” And he lifted a hand up in wave goodbye and headed down the weaving, narrow road until Scorpius lost sight of him. 

Scorpius groaned and kicked at his bike. He was just getting used to it, the Muggle contraption. When he bought it, he thought it’d be fun. He pictured himself riding around cities and towns and villages, the wind in his hair and blurs of buildings and people in his periphery as he zoomed through crowded streets and cobbled alleys and grassy lanes.

But it turned out he was rubbish on a bike. At least when on the ground, that is. After discovering that riding a bicycle was harder than it looked, Scorpius tinkered with the thing. He charmed it and bewitched it to fly, probably breaking a few hundred wizarding laws in the process. At night, he’d leave his flat and hop on his bike, confident only when it started to levitate and ascend toward the dark sky. He’d pedal and pedal and pedal, free of distractions and obstacles and damn pedestrians, and ride it carefree among the stars. A freewheeling Malfoy.

 

An only child, Scorpius had lived in Wiltshire for most of his lonely life. At eleven, when most children his age were leaving home to attend Hogwarts, Scorpius was receiving private lessons at home by various witches and wizards, some retired teachers and others local professionals. He lived with his overprotective parents and then, not long after he turned thirteen, just his father. 

For years he learned all he could about magic, and at seventeen, of age and sick of being confined to Malfoy Manor, he left. 

With more inherited family gold in his pockets than most wizards have in their lifetime, Scorpius was able to travel for a while. He went to Glasgow and Belfast and Paris and Liden. He visited Florence and Prague and Hamburg. Sometimes he traveled with his father, but mostly he traveled alone.

He was usually alone. 

Wanting to learn more of the world he was sheltered from, Scorpius finally returned to England and interviewed with the Ministry. Growing up, he found himself utterly enchanted with the idea of all things Muggle, from automobiles to computers to ball point pens. So when he was selected as a junior associate in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, he couldn’t have been more pleased. 

Scorpius divided his work duties between the Office of Misinformation, the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, and the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, all on Level Three of the Ministry building in London. His day-to-day activities consisted of shuffling through reports of Muggle-spotted magical activity, dispatching to various locations throughout Great Britain to investigate further, and concocting (sometimes outrageous) explanations for the actions of his fellow wizards and witches or, in the most extreme cases, obliviating poor Muggles and reversing any lingering effects of the magic they witnessed. 

On his easiest, slowest days, Scorpius was easing the hearts and minds of Muggles with careful explanations that hovering broomsticks were due to abnormally gusty winds, and on his hardest, longest days he was altering the memories of those who saw humans shockingly transfigure into animals and back again.

All of this effort went into helping the Ministry prevent fellow wizards and witches from breaking the International Statute of Secrecy.

When he wasn’t working, Scorpius was fiddling with Muggle inventions in his flat. He had no ill intentions, of course, but he wouldn’t say that what he was doing was _entirely_ on the up and up. The question of legality wasn’t going to deter him, however. After all, it was Scorpius’s greatest ambition to combine Muggle technology with the magic of the wizarding world, and he’d be damned if someone from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office was going to tell him otherwise (as a matter of fact, they often did, and he had been fined so often that he had to take those fines into account when figuring his monthly budget). 

But Scorpius was good at his job, and his superiors had no interest in what he did during his personal time, as long as a report that Muggles actually witnessed his tinkerings didn’t end up on their desks. So Scorpius continued to take apart microwaves to make them sing and enchant staplers so they could dance and, of course, work for the Ministry. 

Sometimes his work took him out of the office for weeks at a time. Usually, this was when magic wasn’t easily traceable or when strange happenings surfaced via Muggle channels, such as police logs or news stations, and the Ministry had to figure out who in the wizarding world was at fault. In these cases, Scorpius would leave London and head to the site of disturbance and suss out the origin of the magic and the culprit. 

These circumstances brought him to York. A colleague had been monitoring the usual sources—Muggle newspapers, Internet pages, the scattered witch or wizard living among the Muggle population—and noticed an uptick of gossip and murmurings around a popular shopping and eating district in the heart of the city. Talk of the bizarre and peculiar coupled with the detection of a nearby magical outburst prompted Scorpius to seek further information and resolve anything that might put his community at risk for exposure. 

So he packed up his things, anticipating at least a few weeks stay in a new location, and booked a hotel not far from the site of disturbance. And it only took him one day, not even twenty-four hours, to find himself limping down the road, sporting fresh bruises and scrapes, carrying a beaten bicycle, and already feeling utterly defeated. 

After chaining his mangled bike to a stand outside, Scorpius trudged into his hotel’s lobby and rode the lift up several floors, before collapsing onto the bed in his room (and wincing even at the soft impact of the bedspread on his tender sternum and ribs). He groaned into his pillow and told himself he’d start his investigation tomorrow.

* * *

A few applications of some thoughtfully packed Murtlap Essence and a lazy day spent watching television healed Scorpius to almost normal. He put off fixing his bike until later that week and opted to walk through York instead, his wand stowed in a hidden pocket of the messenger bag bouncing on his hip. 

He soon found himself in the same neighborhood where he’d splattered on the hard ground, and he shuddered at the lingering embarrassment. Shrugging off the feeling by convincing himself that he’d likely never see any of the near-casualties and spectators again, he continued his journey, smiling at the morning’s commuters and checking out the surrounding shops. 

He passed a tavern, a solicitor’s office, and a place that sold artisan woolen yarns. Most of the businesses, such as the hat shop and pharmacy, were not yet open at seven o’clock in the morning, but there seemed to be more foot traffic as the road bent left. 

The paved road turned into cobbled street and Scorpius found shops more to his quaint liking—a niche bookstore, a posh-looking tea room, and a tiny bakery. He peered into the dark windows of the bookstore, promised himself he’d return at nine when it opened, skipped the tea room, and then headed for the narrow two-level bakery storefront wedged between its much larger neighbors. 

People were going in and out of the bakery’s dark green door, clutching disposable coffee cups and brown paper bags. A small window on the first level offered a glimpse of others eating at tables inside, and a framed chalkboard nailed next to the door hinted at what daily specials the diners might be enjoying—Chelsea buns, curd tarts, and freshly baked sunflower sourdough loaves. 

The place was called Sugar Dust, as evidenced by the overhanging sign gently swinging above the entrance. Scorpius was immediately taken by the sweet name and white cursive lettering. He sidestepped leaving customers and pushed the door open. 

It was clear at once that the small establishment was more than a bakery. Aside from the abundant loaves and pastries behind the glass at one far end of the counter, there was bar seating and an assortment of coffee machines and syrups at the other end. Several small rounded tables were scattered about, all accompanied by three or four mismatched chairs each. A few plushy armchairs were pushed together in the west corner, and a small barrel doubling as a table sat in the middle of them. Full bookshelves lines the walls behind.

The floors were hardwood and creaky. The walls that were not exposed brick seemed freshly painted dark grey and decorated with matted local art. A hodgepodge of different colors and sizes of mugs hung from the walls on small meat hooks. Singular Edison light bulbs dangled low from the ceiling and gave the cozy space a warm glow. Behind the counter and bar was a saloon door presumably leading to a kitchen, and off in the west corner was a narrow staircase leading upstairs to the second landing. 

One wouldn’t have known the place was so roomy inside judging from the seemingly small space it took up between the other shops on the street. It was almost unreal. 

But Scorpius didn’t dwell on the possible impossibilities for too long. He had found an empty seat at the bar and was fully enjoying the intoxicating scent of the freshly baked bread that sat nearby at the counter while he perused a menu. He was fully engrossed in reading about the cake selections when he sensed a nearby presence that he couldn’t ignore. 

He looked up to see the same young man from the day before, but this time he was behind the counter a way’s down and looking very annoyed as he took the order of a woman with two small children, their noses pressed up against the glass as they drooled over gigantic muffins.

Scorpius watched him hand the woman her change, noticing that he was no longer wearing his hoodie but instead a plain white t-shirt, jeans, and a black apron. Without the outerwear, Scorpius saw that the other man’s right arm was nearly covered in tattoos. 

As if he could sense Scorpius staring, the young man turned his head and looked right at him. Scorpius quickly looked away and back at his menu. After a few seconds he looked again. The young man, now boxing up muffins, was staring back. Scorpius lifted a hand in a pathetic attempt to say hello, but the young man had already turned back to tend to the next customer. 

A cheery woman popped up from behind the bar and nearly startled Scorpius off of his stool. 

“What can I get for you, love?” 

“Um, wow, just a soy milk latte please. Extra sugar.”

The woman, who was wearing a name tag that said “Fabiola,” went over to the various coffee machines and got to work. Scorpius continued to sneak glances across the room. 

The bakery was growing more crowded as eight o’clock came and went. Customers were ordering teas and espressos, lemon muffins and walnut cookies, and keeping the small staff (surely there couldn’t be more than two or three people who worked there—someone else in the kitchen, perhaps?) so busy that Scorpius doubted he’d ever get a chance to interact with the person he was lucky enough to stumble upon two days in a row. 

He was on his second latte and a quarter way through a book he’d brought in his bag when a plate was dropped in front of him. A brownie sat atop it, and Scorpius looked up to tell Fabiola that he hadn’t ordered anything but was greeted by a handsome, masculine face instead. 

The dark stubble was still there and still impressive, and the the eyes were just as green as the day prior. The hair was still a mess, looking either playfully windswept or if the wearer had just woken up in a hospital bed. Scorpius’s heart clenched as he stuttered out a response.

“Um, I—um, didn’t order—”

“You looked hungry.”

“Did I?”

“How’s your bike?”

“Bit beat up, I’m afraid.”

“And you?”

“Bit beat up as well.”

The other man smiled slightly and then motioned at Fabiola, who was wiping down the bar, to take the next customer at the till.

“You’re not from here.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No, I’m not,” Scorpius said. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, most people here don’t ride bicycles into the Shambles shops.” 

Scorpius laughed nervously and explained that he usually worked in London. As he prattled on about not knowing much about York, Scorpius tried to make out the tattoos on his companion’s heavily freckled arm without looking too obvious. He spotted a snake or two, bunches of flowers that were likely lilies, an intricate map, and what could have been the tail of an elaborate dragon or just a ferocious lizard, the body hidden beneath the shirt sleeve. Scorpius found himself wondering how far the tattoos went and whether they covered any other body parts, and then felt himself flush. 

“I’m sorry, what was your name?”

Scorpius snapped back to attention and hoped the pink he knew was coloring his cheeks wasn’t too evident. 

“Scorpius. Scorpius Malfoy.”

The young man regarded him curiously. Frowning as if he was trying really hard to digest that piece of information. 

“It’s a silly name, I know,” Scorpius said, feeling suddenly self-conscious at the other’s silence. 

“No, it’s not too bad. I was just thinking that... something about it sounded familiar?”

Scorpius shook his head. It wasn’t likely that this beautiful Muggle who worked pouring coffee and making pastries and getting irritated at customers would know him or any other remaining Malfoy.

“You’re mistaken,” Scorpius said. “I’m nobody.”

Before the other man could get another word out, Scorpius spoke again. 

“What’s your name?” He just had to know. This person didn't seem the type divulge much. In fact, he seemed quite reserved. Aloof? No, shy. 

“Most people call me ‘Al,’” he said, shrugging. 

Al. _Al._

“Well, what shall I call you—”

“Al, can I get some help over here?” came the voice of Fabiola, who was trying to stuff numerous loaves of bread into a customer’s crate. A line was growing long in front of her. Al looked a bit peeved as he scowled. But Scorpius thought suited him. He had a soft spot for grumps, after all. 

“See you around, yeah?” Al said as he walked away. Scorpius fumbled to find some Muggle money in his bag, but Al, turning around one more time, waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”

Scorpius uttered a thank you that was lost in the air as Al tended to his other customers. He shoved the brownie in his mouth, stuck his book under his arm, and then rummaged through the bottom of the bag’s contents anyway for some money to leave as a tip. More customers were coming in and eyeing his spot at the bar, so Scorpius hastily pulled some coins out, not even bothering to see which ones or how much, and threw them on the counter. 

After shamelessly staring at Al, who was carefully placing fresh tarts behind the glass, for a few more precious seconds, Scorpius left for the neighboring bookstore, feeling pleasantly warm from the small interaction he’d had with someone so cute and vowing to start his investigation that afternoon when his head was a bit clearer.


	2. Chapter Two

Scorpius sat at the neighboring bookstore for more than four hours. He found a quiet, dusty corner on the second floor between Horror and Science Fiction, and spent half his time leafing through various books he’d carefully Accio’d from the shelves when nearby Muggles weren’t looking. All of the books were second hand and antiquarian, and some worse for wear, but Scorpius didn’t mind. He’d found an illustrated _Gulliver’s Travels,_ a first-edition _Treason of Isengard,_ and a rare Rumi collection of translated prose. 

The remaining two hours he spent taking notes for his investigation on a tattered but mostly unused sketchbook he found in the Art stacks. He drew out the perimeter of the site where the magic was reportedly witnessed and began jotting down all the shops and restaurants within it. 

He made note of anyone he’d met in York (limited so far to the hotel manager, Fabiola, and, of course, Al) and a list of people he’d need to interview (the owner of a cheese shop down the road who kept making reports to the Muggle police about loud and unidentifiable _bangs_ , the fellow who kept phoning the local society for animal cruelty prevention and insisting that someone _must_ be breeding or training or exploiting owls as growing numbers were seen swooping low through the streets in broad daylight, and the university student who exclaimed online across various web pages that she saw a unicorn galloping down a cobbled alleyway). 

A large stomach growl made Scorpius pause and look up from his notes. He couldn’t very well continue on an empty belly, and walking around could trigger new ideas and possible suspects. So he paid for his books (with Muggle money of course) and dropped them in his bag, ignoring the loud thumps they made on their descent and inwardly thanking the witch or wizard responsible for creating the Undetectable Extension Charm he’d placed on it. Heaving his satchel over his shoulder and smiling at the young woman at the till who was now regarding him curiously, he left. 

As he walked around looking for a bite to eat, Scorpius again took inventory of his surroundings: another tea room, a sausage company, a boutique that sold handmade purses, an art supply store, and a fragrant spice shop. The streets were more crowded at the late lunch hour, and Scorpius noticed all sorts of people, including several members of a local rugby team, a group of schoolchildren on an outing, and a small woman somehow carrying the largest mortar and pestle Scorpius had ever seen. 

Despite passing many different restaurants and eateries, Scorpius circled back and again found himself under Sugar Dust’s swinging sign before pushing the door open. 

Al must’ve been in the kitchen. Or upstairs. Of any other employees, Scorpius could see only Fabiola, who was wiping down the counter. Late lunch stragglers were taking up most of the tables and bar space, but Scorpius happily seized one of the empty armchairs in the far corner by throwing his bag on it. He was facing the cluttered bookshelves on the wall and reading over the spines when he felt a light kick to his heel. He turned around and saw Al standing there, stony faced, but with a cup of tea in one hand and plate of pain au chocolat in the other. A truly beautiful sight. 

“You’ll have to pay this time,” Al said, handing them over. Scorpius accepted gratefully and nodded. 

“No, of course—” 

“And don’t leave any crumbs behind.”

“Oh! I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Only kidding,” Al said, but he continued to stare back, not looking the least bit amused. He moved Scorpius’s bag from the chair and motioned for Scorpius to sit. Scorpius did, and Al pulled a spoon from the pocket of his apron and handed it to him. 

“Be right back,” he said, and he left to scold a man for reaching behind the counter. 

“Oi! Get your grubby meathooks off those muffins!”

Scorpius watched him go, noticing that his hair was less wild this afternoon; it looked like it had been pushed back so that the locks weren’t hanging in his face. It still suited him, though, and curled behind his ears endearingly. Even while he was now begrudgingly throwing a muffin into a paper bag and shoving the purchase into the man’s chest. 

Scorpius checked his reflection in the back of his spoon, his features slightly distended as they bounced back at him. His own hair, white-blond and wavy, was usually neat and parted on the side. It wasn’t nearly as voluminous as Al’s, but it wasn’t cut too short either. His nose, like the rest of his face, was pale and pointed, and his eyes were a warm grey. He supposed he was good looking in his own way. 

Scorpius continued to stare at his convexed reflection, scrunching up his features and then relaxing again and baring his teeth to make sure nothing was stuck between them. He bit into his pain au chocolat—delicious—and was careful to catch any falling flakes. He dumped a generous amount of sugar from bowl on the table into his tea before stirring it. 

Al came back and caught him mid sip. 

“This is really, _really_ good,” Scorpius said, swallowing. “How can it possibly taste _this good?_ ”

“Magic,” Al said, shrugging. And then—he winked. _Winked!_

Scorpius melted. 

“Ah, sure. Right. And this is so good too.” Scorpius held up what was left of the pastry. Al perched himself on the arm of the chair and looked down, apparently pleased. Scorpius had to scoot over to properly look back up at him. 

“So,” he started. “What brings you back here for the second time today?”

“The food of course.”

“Ah.”

“Maybe I’ll stop by for dinner as well.”

“No, you won’t,” Al said. Scorpius frowned. And then Al added, “We close at three.”

_Three? How perfect,_ Scorpius thought. _He can pick up our future children from primary school._

“Sounds reasonable…” And because he had to know when he could catch Al again later in the week, probably the next day, he added, “And do you ever get time off, or—?”

“I mean, sure I can take off whenever I want, I suppose.”

Scorpius looked around the bakery. 

“Your boss is pretty easy going then? Whoever he or she is—”

“Scorpius, I am the boss.”

Scorpius stared. First, Al remembered his name. And second…

“You—run this place?”

“As well as own it, yes.”

“But you’re so—young! I mean—I’m still a junior underling at my job… How old are you by the way?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Me too!”

“Imagine that.”

“And you _own_ this very fine establishment.”

“Looks like.”

“You should be very proud.”

Al rolled his eyes. 

“I bake. People eat. I tell them to leave. It’s not that hard.”

“And look there, you’ve got a catchy slogan, too.”

Al pursed his lips. Scorpius sipped at his tea and then spoke again. 

“I like the name. Sugar Dust.”

“My sister came up with it. She thought it was… sweet.”

“It is! Sweet as the sweet treats you make. And as my mum always said, _Sweets, they always help you make friends!”_

Al stared back at him, apparently lost for words. He blinked once. Scorpius cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very foolish. 

“Dumb thing to say, probably—”

“So what brings you to York?”

Bless this man. He was trying to change the subject. And he remembered that Scorpius was a stranger to the city. 

“Um, work, actually.”

“What do you do?”

As Scorpius tried to think of the best way to translate what he did in the wizarding world to this Muggle one, he watched Al wave off a customer lifting her empty coffee cup in his direction. From across the bakery, Fabiola hurried to the customer, coffee carafe in hand.

“I’m, um, an investigator of sorts. I’m looking into some… crimes.”

“Crimes? Are you a detective?”

“Um, sort of? Well, no. I can’t really discuss it here.”

Al’s face fell slightly. 

“Oh.”

“Well, I guess I _could_ talk about a few things,” Scorpius said quickly. He cringed inwardly at how eagerly he offered information. But then Al perked up and leaned over some more over the chair, and Scorpius let the guilt go. “I mean, I’m here investigating some—” he lowered his voice “—suspicious activity.”

“And what is the nature of this—” and Al looked around cautiously before leaving in closer, his face very close to Scorpius’s own, “— _suspicious activity?_ ”

“You’re mocking me.”

“A little.”

Scorpius took another bite of his pain au chocolat before continuing. 

“ _Anyway,_ I guess you could say that I work for the government and that I’m trying to figure out who here in York has been... spilling government secrets to, um, non-government employees.”

Al blinked back at him. Chewed on his lower lip. And then shrugged and nodded as if to say, _That makes sense._

“Okay.”

Okay? _Okay?_ Scorpius just told this man something very vague yet very intriguing, if he could say so himself, and all he had to say was _okay?_

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t want to know more?”

“What else is there to know? I mean, my father works for… the government.”

Scorpius highly doubted Al’s father did anything close to Ministry work, and while he was a little curious about what a Muggle civil servant did all day, his impulse to ask more was cut off by Al getting up from the arm of the chair. 

“Well,” he said, looking around. The bakery was a little less occupied, but several tables were littered with napkins and cups. “I should get back to it, then. The last stretch of the day and all that.” 

“What are you doing for dinner?” Scorpius asked abruptly. 

“What?”

“For dinner—what do you usually do? Are you busy?”

Al regarded him a moment. Scorpius tried not to look too desperate, but he wanted, _needed_ to talk to Al more. He couldn’t explain it, but a few exchanged words about work wasn’t enough. And no, it wasn’t just the fact that Al had the cutest scowl Scorpius had ever seen. 

“I’m—I’m meeting someone,” Al said. 

“Oh, well, okay,” Scorpius said, his cheeks burning. Stupid, _stupid._

Al opened his mouth to say something, but Scorpius cut him off.

“I’ll see you later, maybe,” he said, pulling a couple Muggle banknotes out of his bag and laying them on the table, not really caring how much he was leaving, and walking toward the door. “Thanks.”

Heart hammering, he pushed the door open and walked briskly out onto the cobbled street, too embarrassed to even look back. Of course Al had dinner plans. Of course someone like that had company. Of what kind? Who knows. Probably loads of friends. A girlfriend. A lover or two. 

Anyone would be better company than Scorpius, probably, he thought. Scorpius, who Al barely knew and who now seemed as if he stalked the bakery just to flirt with the owner. 

Scorpius, whose only friends consisted of a house elf, his office mate, Gertrude, who barely counted and only reluctantly joined him for lunch on Tuesdays and Fridays, and an imaginary fellow who made his appearance every three years or so whenever Scorpius was feeling exceptionally lonely. Just being near Al and his cozy bakery and his unbothered attitude made him feel woefully insecure. 

He knew he was being dramatic. That he was building off of one statement and thinking way too hard. He had his job, and his father, and his tinkerings. He even had some past somewhat-satisfying sexual partners that had given him shallow orgasms, even though they didn’t stick around for long once they found out Scorpius was a _Malfoy_ or _weird_. 

Scorpius knew he wasn’t entirely hopeless. But that didn’t stop him from walking glumly to his hotel, calling it in early, and spending the rest of his night watching some comedy set in outer space and eating a subpar room service hamburger while he wondered if he’d ever experience companionship with a person who actually liked him. 

As he debated making some mystery hotel coffee in the supplied electric brewer, Scorpius heard a sharp tapping on sliding glass door that led to the balcony outside. 

A Ministry owl, feathers neatly pressed and foot tagged, hovered, an envelope in its beak. Groaning, Scorpius rolled off his bed went to slide the door open. He took the post, and then flopped back onto the bed to read his letter, the owl hopping after him before sitting, waiting, patiently on the floor. 

The letter was from his immediate boss, Constance Pickering. Pickering was a witch in her fifties and, for the most part, was fine to work for, if not a little intense. She’d led the Statute of Secrecy Task Force many moons ago when a calamitous outbreak of magic threatened to expose many of the wizarding world secrets. 

Pickering had been borderline paranoid about breaking the Statute since, and Scorpius was often the ear to her racing thoughts. 

In this letter she was asking if everything was all right. If Scorpius was having trouble as it had been now two days with no update from him. If he needed a backup. 

Scorpius scratched out a response, insisting that he needed just a bit more time. That he’d had a nasty fall off his bike and was recuperating. That he didn’t need backup. That the situation hardly called for urgency. That maybe he’d put in some holiday days in York when he was done. 

He rummaged through the pockets of his bag, searching deep for the little brass Knuts he knew he’d packed. He held the bag upside down and let the vast contents spill out: several ties, an avalanche of books of all subjects and sizes, his wand, a cauldron and emergency potions supplies, some bat spleens, extra toiletries, loose Galleons and Sickles, and a Muggle music device Scorpius was keen to dismantle and charm, among other things. But no Knuts. 

Scorpius stuffed a Sickle into the money bag hanging on the owl’s leg. 

“Go on then, I know it’s heavy but it’s all I have.” 

The owl gave an indignant hoot as it hopped back toward the door, a little off balance from the weight of the silver coin. 

“I _know_ it’s too much, but would you rather have a Galleon? Some Muggle coins? I’ve an abundance of those.”

The owl turned its head away in an offended sort of way before taking off and flying out of the open door and into the night sky. Scorpius slid the door shut behind it.

* * *

Scorpius walked past Sugar Dust without a second glance the next day, heading instead for the cheese shop. He wasn’t eager to get a cup of coffee after he’d embarrassed himself the day prior by practically asking Al out to dinner and most definitely getting rejected. 

No, his efforts were much better spent on getting some information on the source of the magic. 

The cheese shop was owned by a handsome woman in her forties who smelled slightly of taleggio. She—Mrs. Quark—was more than happy to let Scorpius sit at one of her few small tables and ask her questions if he also ordered several rounds of various cheeses and crackers. 

So, surrounded by baskets and hampers of cheeses strong and mild and soft and hard and pungent, Scorpius poised his pen over a fresh page in his sketchbook and began. 

“So you’ve made several police reports over the last year, correct?”

“That’s right,” the cheesemonger said. She brought out a jagged slate and wooden slab, both covered with misshapen cubes and wedges of cheeses that Scorpius had selected from an extensive paper menu. Scorpius looked appraisingly over what he’d chosen and immediately sampled a bit of the Brie de Meaux Dongé. Perfect. 

“And these reports all dealt with… what exactly?”

“Noises! Bangs and booms! Terribly loud, mind you. I don’t make reports just because I’m bored, you see.”

“I do see,” Scorpius said, and he scribbled down notes in his sketchbook. He used his cheese knife to cut a piece of Fourme d’Ambert and plopped it in his mouth with a salted wafer. 

“And how often do you hear these bangs and booms?”

And Mrs. Quark told him that she heard them several nights a week. That she works late at night perfecting her craft and getting the age and firmness and curds just right. That once she went outside and saw green and purple sparks in the sky following a particularly loud explosion. That the smell of cannon fodder once took over the whole street. That the loudest of these booms happened just weeks ago. That the rumble she had felt in her feet and the ringing in her ears told her that these noises were no fireworks or delinquent children. 

It seemed that the sounds were occurring mostly in the evening, around midnight. That they were so loud that they could be coming from any direction, and that the police had investigated the source only to come up with nothing. The person responsible was never found. 

Scorpius chewed on a piece of blue Wensleydale while he listened. Mrs. Quark’s testimony wasn’t much to go on, and only her sight of green and purple sparks following the noises gave any indication that the source was someone magical. 

“And what did you say your title was, dear?” Mrs. Quark said suddenly, as if she’d just realized it was strange to be interrogated by a young man with a sketchbook and fondness for coagulated dairy. 

Spreading some port marmalade on another cracker and washing his early lunch down with a swig of Madeira Mrs. Quark had pulled from the back of the shop, Scorpius only smiled and took down a few more notes before packing up.

* * *

For the first time since he’d started his job, Scorpius felt as if his investigation was going nowhere. He usually snuffed out the culprit after a brief snooping, but even after a too-long conversation with Mrs. Quark, Scorpius was lost. 

It didn’t help that for whatever reason he kept thinking about his lonely existence.

He was walking down the familiar main path, head bowed and arms crossed, when he suddenly collided with something solid.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—”

Several very large sacks of flour stacked on top of each other blocked the person carrying them, but Scorpius still recognized the voice immediately. 

“Al?”

Al’s face popped out from behind the flour bags. 

“Scorpius, hey.”

“Hey.”

“Lemme just—hold on—” All shifted the sacks of flour until he’d balanced two on each of his shoulders. Scorpius looked at him sympathetically. If he could charm the sacks to hover without revealing everything, or magic them weightless, he would. 

“Aren’t those heavy?” 

“Nah, not too bad,” Al said. And he looked like he meant it. He didn’t seem to be struggling much at all. He nodded down the path. “Want to come in for some lunch?” 

Scorpius looked up and saw the Sugar Dust sign hanging down the way. He shrugged. Al readjusted the sacks and began to walk away.

“Suit yourself, then.”

Scorpius watched him go. His back and shoulders and all the rest of him looking quite fit as he balanced all that flour on each arm. 

Groaning loudly, Scorpius jogged to keep up. Sure, he’d just ate half his weight in cheese, but he could fit in another meal. 

“Okay. Okay! I’ll have some lunch.”

“That you’re gonna pay for.”

“Of course.” 

Scorpius held the door open for Al as they walked in to the bakery. Fabiola was decorating cakes behind the counter while patrons chatted away at the tables or typed novels on their laptops. Scorpius plopped down in one of the corner’s plushy chairs and craned a look back at the daily menu posted on the wall while he pulled his interview notes from his bag. 

Al had disappeared behind the kitchen doors, and Scorpius could hear his faint murmurings and the clanking of pans and dishware. Scorpius was just about to go to the counter to order when Al suddenly appeared beside him, puffs of flour in his hair and down the front of his apron. 

He placed a plated sandwich onto the table in front of Scorpius and mumbled something. 

“Um, pardon?”

“I said that I hope you like brioche.”

“I like any kind of bread!”

“And I hope you aren’t allergic to nuts.”

Scorpius picked up the sandwich and saw that the brioche slices were slathered in a nut butter spread and some kind of jam. He took a bite, and his eyes immediately watered. 

“And I hope you don’t mind a bit of heat.”

Scorpius swallowed and looked at the sandwich again. 

“It’s jalapeño blackberry jam,” Al said, looking a bit sheepish. “Most people like it…”

“No—no! I love it, truly.” Scorpius took another bite for emphasis. “Just surprised me is all,” he said after another swallow. “It’s perfect, really.”

Al gave a faint smile before shoving his hands in his apron pocket. 

Scorpius chewed as Al shuffled in place.

“Why didn't you come by for breakfast?” Al asked. 

“Um, I slept in,” Scorpius said. 

“Not that this is the only place to eat around here,” Al said quickly. “Far from it. I was just… beginning to get used to you.”

Scorpius couldn’t help but beam. Maybe it was Al’s fantastic sandwich, or that he’d expected, and not hated the idea, to see Scorpius again, but Scorpius was feeling a bit brave.

“Do you think—would you want—to perhaps... be friends?” Scorpius cringed. _What am I, twelve?_

Al blinked back at him. 

“Why?”

“Oh—I just thought—that I’d be here a while—oh, never mind—”

“No, I mean, why would you want to be friends with _me?_ ”

“ _Why would I want to be friends with you?_ Have you met you? You’re—you’re kind, and you bake _really_ good bread, and, okay, you could smile a bit more and be a little warmer toward your guests, but I’ve got a good feeling that there’s a funny, sensitive bloke in there, and—”

“I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“What? Really? How?”

“Three excellent questions.”

“Seriously? You seem—” Scorpius took in again Al’s without-a-care hair, the tattoos covering his arm, and the bakery he owned—“cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yes.”

“Scorpius Malfoy, I am far from _cool_.”

“Well, you’re cooler than me.”

“Maybe.”

A stretch of silence played out while Scorpius picked at the crumbs on his plate. 

“I don’t have a lot of friends either,” he said quietly. “One could say that I have approximately no friends.”

Al again perched himself on the arm of the chair.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Not even old schoolmates or—”

Scorpius laughed at the absurdity of him having a schoolmate or play friend growing up. 

“No. No, see I was schooled at home. Kind of an isolated upbringing, really.”

“Ah, well, I actually went to school and still had no friends, so—”

“How is that possible? Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but—”

“I was bullied. Constantly. Kids made fun of me. Didn’t like me. I wasn’t a very good student and—and I was angry a lot, and then I got into some trouble when I was fourteen because I was so angry, and I guess this dark cloud of loserdom just followed me around until I left home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

Scorpius thought about his life. And how he would’ve loved to go to school—to Hogwarts—and how he’d definitely be friends with someone like Al. 

“I would’ve been your friend.”

“Maybe,” Al said again. Scorpius wanted to reach over and reassuringly touch Al’s arm, or back, or knee. But he didn’t dare. Al seemed a prickly sort of fellow before, and now that Scorpius knew he was kind of a loner, he didn’t want to overstep any bounds. 

But then Al’s hand was on his shoulder. 

“Tell me more about your investigation.”

“Um—”

“Or about your job. Your family. Anything.”

“Well. I’ve already told you about my job—it’s a lot of ‘looking into things’ and interviewing witnesses and making sure everyone is playing by the rules. Would probably be dull to you.”

“Your family then.”

“Not much going on there either, I’m afraid. It’s me and my dad. That’s it.”

“Your mum?”

“She died when I was thirteen.”

“Oh, Scorpius, I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“It’s all right. I mean, it isn’t, but—it’s been a long time and, well, yeah.” There was an awkward silence while Scorpius finished his sandwich and Al played with a loose thread on the arm chair. 

“And your family?” Scorpius asked, not wanting the conversation to end. 

Al cocked his head curiously and looked at him. 

“Big. Loud. Irritating.”

“But you love them.”

“I do.”

“You don’t get on?”

“It’s complicated. I don’t feel like I belong sometimes. Like I’m a disappointment or the weird cousin no one wants to invite over.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Well, it’s true. When your parents are famous and your brother is funny and popular and your sister is beautiful and witty, then there’s little room for the dark cloud of the middle child, is there?”

“Your parents are famous?”

Al looked at Scorpius with such incredulity that Scorpius wondered what he’d said wrong. 

“Are you having me on?”

“What?” Scorpius asked. “Of course not.”

Al regarded him curiously. 

“You really don’t know?”

“Um, no? Yes? Should I? I’m now very confused by this conversation.”

Scorpius wasn’t sure what he was supposed to know, or not know. Or what to say. Al was surveying him, frowning. 

“Er, okay,” he finally said. “I should get back to my customers.”

“Right! Right. You do that.”

Scorpius finished the last of his tea and began fishing some notes out of his bag. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Al said. 

“I thought you said—”

“I might change my mind.”

“Okay! Thank you!” Scorpius bounded from his seat and held out his hand. Al looked at it apprehensively before taking it in his own and shaking it. 

Scorpius couldn’t help but smile as warmth spread throughout him. 

“I’ll just see you then,” he squeaked out, as he let go and headed for the door, determined to leave before embarrassing himself further, his bag swinging at his side. 

“We can be, you know,” Al called out. Scorpius stopped and turned to look at him. Al was fiddling with the pocket on his apron. Patrons at tables and at the counter were waving their arms and clearing their throats, trying to get his attention, but he didn’t acknowledge them. 

“Can be what?”

Al smiled. 

“Friends.”

Scorpius grinned back.


	3. Chapter Three

Scorpius went to Sugar Dust the next day. And the next. And every day for breakfast and lunch the following week and the weeks after. Al would greet him each time with some variation of, “You again?” or, “Don’t you have anywhere else to go?” but his words never had any malice to them. Rather, he’d smile cheekily and then lead Scorpius over to the next available table, bar stool, or armchair. Scorpius would then sit and relax, a book or his sketchbook on his lap and his attention always on Al and whatever topic they’d decided to talk about that moment. 

Aside from the standard selection of baked goods that were always freshly stocked behind glass or in bread baskets, there appeared to be no consistency to the breakfast or lunch menus as they varied weekly. 

Well, for Scorpius they did. 

Al seemed to be using him as a guinea pig for new bakes and usually placed something in front of Scorpius’s face as soon as he sat down, from cajeta-filled churros and Mexican hot chocolate to orange blossom profiteroles with chocolate ice cream to mushroom ricotta flatbread and bubbly Sicilian lemonade. Scorpius was often the subject of envious glances and stares of the other patrons as he ate whatever Al exclusively made for him. 

He couldn’t complain at the special service, even if his trousers were starting to fit a bit tight and he’d had to take to riding his newly-repaired bike long distances in the evening—the tip of his wand lit and strapped to the frame when he was on the road and a Disillusionment Charm cast on himself when he was in the sky—to balance out the bloat (and get some cycling practice clocked in the meantime). 

Also, even though Al was reluctant to accept, Scorpius insisted on paying for every loaf, bun, dessert, coffee, and fizzy drink offered to him. He was spending so much Muggle money at the bakery and for his extended hotel stay that he had needed to Apparate back to London to exchange some Galleons at Gringotts for more notes and coins. 

His boss had written him at least twice a week since he sent owl post to the Ministry to let her know he had to stay in York at least a couple more months to investigate. Pickering had asked if he needed backup, a holiday, or someone from Magical Law Enforcement to assist. Scorpius insisted that he was fine, that the problem was tedious and needed careful attention but wasn’t dangerous, and that he’d rather lick the bottom of his shoes than deal with anyone from Magical Law Enforcement. He also reminded Pickering that he usually solved his cases in half the time of his superiors and that he hadn’t taken a holiday in over a year and if he meandered his way through this case it shouldn’t make a difference to his departments or his personal file. Luckily for Scorpius, and on the condition that he stop into the office very soon for a meeting, she agreed. 

Scorpius’s dad wrote to him as well and relayed any news from their world that Scorpius was missing out on because he was spending so much time in the Muggle one. Scorpius was grateful for the updates, since it was his only way of finding anything out. He refused to subscribe to or read the Daily Prophet and hadn’t done so in over ten years since the damned publication regularly spread nasty lies about him throughout his childhood. 

Knowing that he wasn’t soon about to face any inquiries at work on his lackadaisical approach to the York incidents and that there wasn’t currently a dark uprising in the magical world, Scorpius relaxed and enjoyed his time with Al. 

 

From their conversations, he learned that Al moved to York three years ago from Bristol. That he had gone to boarding school with his siblings, several cousins, and family friends yet still felt alone the majority of his time there. That he’d come into his small inheritance at age twenty-one and bought a dingy shop in York on a popular cobbled street and renovated it for nearly a year until it resembled the charming bakery that Scorpius had come to love.

Al never said too much all at once, though. Scorpius could tell that Al was still a bit guarded, mostly because he would cut himself off or mumble incoherently when he was about to say something next. This didn’t dissuade Scorpius’s efforts to get to know him by any means; rather, he respected Al’s cautiousness and figured he would let him in at his own pace. Besides, it was a little exciting to know that there was more to know. 

So Scorpius had divulged more of his life, too. He told Al about his father and their manor in Wiltshire, how growing up he and his mother would run through the building’s wings and secret halls, shrieking with laughter, until she was too ill to do so anymore. How he had a number of teachers and tutors who made him sit through lessons and mock exams. And how, at seventeen, he’d left home to travel Europe before taking a job in government and leasing a small flat in Chelsea. 

It was incredibly easy to talk to Al, and not just because Scorpius was sure this Muggle wouldn’t care about his family’s notoriety. Al was attentive and seemed genuinely interested in what Scorpius had to say. He was also witty and fiercely funny and made Scorpius roar with laughter. He was unafraid to roll his eyes or scoff and challenge Scorpius when he thought appropriate (such as when Scorpius insisted that sushi was disgusting or that books were superior to films), and yet he was always kind. Best of all, when he was really into the conversation, he would tell Scorpius to budge up on one of the armchairs and then lean into him while they were talking, sides pressed together, and make the most intense eye contact. Scorpius could hardly look away when he did that.

* * *

When he wasn’t at Sugar Dust, Scorpius was at the bookstore or exploring the rest of York. He hadn’t gathered any new information since his visit to the cheese shop. His interview with the pimply young lad—Cameron—who’d reported on the swarms of owls had gone nowhere as the boy, who worked weekdays at a local boutique pet supply store and met Scorpius there during his shift, was more concerned with whether anyone was going to rehabilitate the poor owls. 

Scorpius spent the majority of the interview doodling in the pages of his sketchbook while Cameron cleaned out several canary cages and gave a lecture on the best hairball-preventative cat food. Scorpius politely wrapped up their talk once it was clear that he wasn’t going to learn anything else of substance and, as a thank you for the interrogation, purchased a paper bag of highly-recommended ferret treats even though he didn’t have any pets. Anyhow, Cameron wasn’t quite buying Scorpius’s story that he was a volunteer from the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals after Scorpius couldn’t tell him whether a dachshund named “Sparky” at the local branch had been re-homed or not. 

It wasn’t too much of a loss, overall. Scorpius couldn’t attribute a parliament of owls to one individual anyway, as witches and wizards across the country regularly sent letters, even though Ministry guidelines _suggested_ that letters be exchanged in the evenings or early mornings. And there was no way to know for sure whether the person using magic in front of Muggles in York was the person sending so much post; Scorpius and Pickering were exchanging several letters weekly after all. Plus, an investigation into letters required substantial correspondence interception that Scorpius, despite his inquisitive nature, was staunchly against. 

Being the subject of a despicable rumors made a person value privacy and discretion. 

So Scorpius left his interviewee to his charitable aspirations and ploughed onward, setting his sights next on interviewing the university student who swore she saw a unicorn galloping through the Shambles and marking a day in the calendar he’d drawn out in his sketchbook to find her. 

Until that day, he’d continue to hang out with Al.

* * *

After Scorpius made it clear that he wasn’t leaving York anytime soon, Al took it upon himself to show Scorpius sights beyond the cobbled streets. 

To Scorpius’s delight, Al had bought a Dutch town bike, black matte and with wrap-around handlebars, and together they spent a day casually cycling around other parts of the city and visiting historic and popular pubs for an afternoon swig, where they managed to get only slightly flushed from their porters and ciders and avoided hitting anyone or anything with their bikes on their trek back. 

Another day they walked from Sugar Dust to the York Museum Gardens, where Scorpius absolutely geeked out at the jurassic exhibition and numismatics collection in the main museum and then squealed somehow even more excitedly when Al showed him the historic telescope in the York Observatory. 

The next week they went to the York Art Gallery and walked quietly together, arms brushing and shoulders bumping, through the mezzanine and upper floors while silently admiring the portraits and sculptures and contemporary pieces. 

But Scorpius had his very best day with Al, so far, during his fifth week in the city. 

The day started off normal at first, with Scorpius going into the bakery at seven o’clock in the morning as usual and Al greeting him with a sarcastic comment before plating a honey maple sweet roll, pouring an Americano, and dumping them on the bar counter with a nod to Scorpius to tuck in. 

But before Scorpius could take a seat to enjoy his breakfast, Al without warning hopped over the counter, took Scorpius by the arm, and pulled him in for a hug. 

“Um, okay, hello. Do we hug? Is this a thing we do now?”

Al only hugged him tighter, and Scorpius felt a nose pressed against his neck and fingers clutching the back of his linen shirt. 

“Sorry,” Al said, pulling back after a moment. He smoothed out the lines on Scorpius’s collar before straightening out his own shirt, a simple green v-neck. “Just trying it out. Good morning.”

“And good morning to you,” said Scorpius, amused. He took his seat and a bite of the roll. “Besides _that_ , what do you want to do today?”

“Let’s go for a walk?”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise. Do you have other shoes besides—” Al waived his hand toward Scorpius’s feet—“Those?”

Scorpius looked down at his impeccable bluchers.

“Of course I do. You’ve seen my trainers when we’re riding our bikes.”

“I’ve seen those suede things _you_ call trainers—”

“They’re perfectly athletic, thank you.”

“Okay, okay. Eat your breakfast and then go get your ‘trainers.’”

“Right-o.”

 

After Scorpius left to retrieve his trainers from his hotel and returned, they took a Coastliner to a place called Breezy Knees, which turned out to be a sprawling garden bursting with color. It was a beautiful May morning, freshly alive after a light rain the day before, and the plants and shrubs and trees that covered the acres of meadow were lush and thriving. 

Scorpius and Al walked along the grassy paths, their feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. Scorpius oohed and ahhed at the irises and peonies that grew to almost knee-height and crouched low in the pebbles surrounding a pond to count the little fish swimming in there. Al stopped them every so often to read the plaques identifying the wide variety of flowers or to admire a fountain. He was also apparently very attractive to bees, as they seemed to buzz around him incessantly even though he kept irritably swatting them away.

They eventually came upon a bench nestled in overgrown purple perennials and covered by a gazebo, and sat down. 

“Do you like it here?” asked Al. He was toeing at a patch of dirt with his scuffed shoe. 

“Oh, yes,” Scorpius said. “It’s lovely. Probably my favorite place we’ve been.”

“I was hoping it would remind you of your gardens at home. That you tended to with your mum.”

Scorpius looked at Al, who seemed unable to look back at him. He was staring at the ground and digging into the ground with the tip of his shoe while he chewed on his lip. 

“It does, in some ways,” Scorpius said, stretching out his legs. “It’s certainly bigger, though. And brighter. More manicured and less chaotic, they way Mum liked things, you know. But it makes me... happy.” Al nodded. Scorpius had told him about his mum’s eclectic take on the Malfoy grounds and was impressed that Al remembered. He scooted closer to Al on the bench and knocked their shoulders together. “Thank you, truly, for sharing these things with me”

Al looked at him then, all green eyes and eyebrows and freckles and that messy black hair (forcefully combed that morning, Scorpius was sure) that framed his perfect, unshaven face. 

“I think, I mean, I _know,_ ” Al started, and he took Scorpius’s nearest hand in his own, “That you’re my best friend—and that I’d do anything to make you happy.” 

Scorpius couldn’t speak, completely overtaken by that swooping sensation in his gut that presented itself whenever Al was around. He stared at their interlocked fingers, the contrast of their skin, and their now-touching knees.

“You are, without a doubt, my best friend, too,” Scorpius said quietly. “This is so new and—and strange sometimes, because, even though we’ve just met, I feel like—like I’ve known you my whole life, or that I _should’ve_ known you my whole life. Like—”

“Like there was something missing?” Al said, looking slightly embarrassed at his own admission. 

Scorpius swallowed and then nodded. 

“Exactly,” he said. “Like there was something missing that I had been looking for—and now I’ve found it.”

“And now things make sense.”

“Yes.”

They sat there much longer, hands clasped together and the only sounds being their own steady breathing and the footfalls of others traipsing through the garden paths. 

Scorpius didn’t quite know what to make of all of it. 

Even though he’d never had a real friend before, Scorpius was pretty confident that most friends didn’t sit hand-in-hand under a romantic gazebo.

Or openly flirt, which is surely what Al was doing each time he playfully teased Scorpius about his clothing or reading habits or when he let his hand rest on Scorpius’s thigh when they were having a conversation in the quiet corner of his bakery. Right?

And yet—Al had turned down Scorpius’s invitation to dinner not once but three times since Scorpius first suggested they spend time together in the evenings. Each time Al would give some excuse: that he had to work late to make a new batch of bread for the next day, that he was too tired, or that he had a stomach ache. And each time Scorpius nodded his understanding and said, “Of course, don’t worry about it,” he had been thinking that Al must not _want_ to get dinner with him, even though they were together every other meal, and that thought made him very sad. 

“Do you want to head back?” Al said, snapping Scorpius out of his musings. “Get dinner?”

“What? Sure—I mean, what?”

“Dinner. Do you want some? I can scrounge something up back at the shop.”

Scorpius stared at Al a minute before nodding. 

“Yes. Definitely, yes.”

 

They got back to the bakery at dusk. Fabiola was taking out the garbage and smiled at them as they came through the door. 

“Good time?” she asked. 

“I think I got bit by a butterfly,” Al grumbled. 

“Butterflies don’t _bite_ ,” Scorpius said, laughing. “Now, a fanged geranium—” Scorpius caught himself and quickly shut up just as Al arched an eyebrow at him. 

_Oh, toots, shoots, and roots,_ he thought. he gave a nervous chuckle and took a seat at the counter while Al looked at him curiously. 

“You’re so weird,” Al said. And Scorpius could only nod in agreement and busy himself with a nursery catalog he got from Breezy Knees, although he wasn’t really reading it so much as trying to appear so  
while he fought hard to forget his momentary blunder. 

Fabiola finished her tasks and bid them goodnight, and Al went to the back to presumably cook. Scorpius let out a groan. _Close one._

Al came back out in a surprisingly short amount of time with sourdough Camembert toasties and bottles of sparkling water. Al leaned on his elbows on the counter and in between bites quizzed Scorpius over all the plants they saw. Scorpius rattled off answers easily, his insides warming every time Al grinned at him in response. 

They continued talking long after their sandwiches were finished and their bottles empty. Scorpius had never been in the bakery at night, and he was enjoying the change in atmosphere. Unaided by the natural light that usually poured through the small windows, the cozy space was much darker and more intimate. The effect was helped mostly by the singular bulbs that hung from the ceiling that seemed to somehow have dimmed by themselves and soft music that Scorpius had to strain to hear but swore was there, though he couldn’t identify where it was coming from. 

Scorpius didn’t know how late it was, but he did know that he had to Apparate back to London in the morning for a meeting with Pickering.

“I really should get going—”

“Do you want a drink—”

They had spoken at the same time. Scorpius laughed nervously before thanking Al for dinner and reluctantly excusing himself.

“Oh, okay, no problem,” Albus said, his face falling as he watched Scorpius push in his barstool. “I’ll see you later then.”

“I would love for you to meet my dad,” Scorpius said, and he didn’t know why that was the next thing to pop into his head and out of his mouth. At the surprised look on Al’s face he added, “Wow, I don’t know why I said that. It’s not that I expect to parade you around or anything like that—or that I’m asking to meet _your_ family—”

“I want you to meet my family, too,” Al said. “But maybe… not right away. Not that you’re not worth meeting! It’s only—I just—I like having something—someone—who’s, er, all mine.”

He said the last part in a very small voice, and Scorpius couldn’t help but notice a slight reddening of Al’s cheeks.

“I should clean up,” Al mumbled, and he took Scorpius’s plate and headed for the back. 

As Al walked away from him, and just before he himself was about to head for the front door and leave, Scorpius cleared his throat. 

“I am, you know.”

Al turned and looked back at him quizzically. 

“What?”

“Yours.”

Al beamed.


	4. Chapter Four

“Tell me one more time,” Scorpius said, using his pen to draw lazy circles at the top of a fresh page in his sketchbook, “what you saw—or think you saw— a few months ago.”

It was seven o’clock in the evening, and Scorpius was seated opposite a young woman named Marion who was a student at the local university. She had eagerly accepted Scorpius’s invitation to meet her at the tea shop in the Shambles under the impression, of course, that he was a reporter for a quarterly arts and culture magazine. 

Marion was a sociable girl, and, like Al and others he’d met while in York, she wasn’t a native. She was from Cardiff, studying environmental science, and spent most weekends performing sketches with her comedy society. 

Because he thought that this interview, like the others before, was going to go nowhere, Scorpius was trying to not appear too bored. 

“I was coming back from this very place,” she said, drumming the fingers of one hand on the tabletop and playing with one of her gold hoop earrings with the other. “And I saw a unicorn! Just galloping up the street!”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just… a horse?” Scorpius asked, skeptical. A unicorn in York? “Or something else that, um, gallops?”

“It was definitely a unicorn. Like, right out of a fairy tale.”

Scorpius scratched at the back of his neck. Marion spoke with such certainty that he was starting to believe her. This was going to be hard to explain away, if true. He took a sip of his Earl Grey. 

“Did it approach you?”

“No, not at all. It seemed like she, or he, maybe, had somewhere to be. It ran right past me and that way,” she said as she pointed north. “I was so shocked! And I couldn't stop staring at it, you know? It was beautiful. Brilliantly white. Whiter than you. Almost… ghostly.”

Scorpius laughed at that, and then asked the question he was most dreading. 

“Did anyone else see?”

“No,” Marion said, shaking her head. “I don’t think so. The owner,” she gestured to the woman placing a fresh kettle on the neighboring table, “was inside. I was the last customer, studying late, you see. And when I went outside, there was no one. Most of the shops were closed by nine. And I doubt anyone would have heard it as it was eerily silent.”

Scorpius took more notes as she talked between sips of her own tea and when they finished, he paid for both of the kettles and led her outside. He let her try out a few of her sketch jokes and, after genuinely laughing at them, told her he was terribly sorry and then promptly Obliviated her. 

It was the worst part of Scorpius’s job, and every time he had to do it, which wasn’t often, he considered resigning. There was something sickening about modifying memories of Muggles, even if for their own good, because who was he to make that decision?

When Marion came back to, which was in no time at all, she blinked confusedly at Scorpius and then bid him good day, still looking unfocused and mumbling something about needing to get to class, even though it was late. Scorpius made a mental note to attend one of the comedy shows as an apology to Marion, who he decided he rather liked. 

Scorpius went back inside to the tea shop to gather his thoughts. It was only seven, after all. He ordered a new kettle of tea—peppermint—and sketched out some more ideas. 

A loud bang, some smaller booms, a peck of owls, and a silent unicorn. This is what he had to work with, and it still wasn’t much of anything. He knew there was someone or something magical around. The unicorn was too much, and he could just _feel_ a magical presence almost constantly now. 

But there was no prime suspect, much to his and Pickering’s annoyance. He’d seen her two weeks ago when he had his meeting back at the Ministry. She was concerned but not angry, curious about what Scorpius was up to but not intrusively so. She told Scorpius though, quite firmly, that he was to wrap up the case by the end of the month, or call it a wash if he couldn’t resolve it, and return to his regular work duties. He had spent nearly two months in York, and work was starting to pile up with only Gertrude tackling it. Scorpius begrudgingly agreed, only because he didn’t have a contingency plan if he refused and Pickering decided to sack him on the spot. 

Scorpius dumped several sugar cubes into his tea cup and stirred it, gloomily. The owner came by, wiped her hands on the towel hanging off her apron, and offered Scorpius a biscuit. 

“Something wrong, dear?” she asked. She was a kind woman, older and very tall and thin. Scorpius accepted the biscuit and nibbled at the edges. 

“Just working,” he said in between bites.

“I’ve never seen you here. Are you new?”

“On holiday,” Scorpius said, nodding, even though he was sure the woman overheard him tell Marion that he was a reporter. 

“You should come around more often,” she said. “We’ve got the best tea in the Shambles.”

“Ah, I’m sure,” Scorpius said, not having the heart to tell this woman that Al’s mystery tea was the best he had in his life. “Though, I’m more of a coffee drinker.”

“Understandable, but tell me you don’t frequent those chains out in the city.”

“No, no, I’m usually at Sugar Dust. You know, the place north up the road?”

“Oh, I know about Sugar Dust. Thank heavens that young man who runs it doesn’t make much tea or he’d put me out of business.”

“He’s pretty great, yeah,” Scorpius said. He stirred his tea some more and thought about Al’s bakery, it’s cozy comforts, and the freshly made treats he usually got while there. 

He hadn’t seen Al that day, deciding he needed to focus on work and accepting that being around Al was _not_ conducive in any way to focusing on, well, anything other than Al’s eyes or Al’s arms or Al’s lips... 

Since their day out at Breezy Knees, they’d continued to spend the majority of their time together, which had only left Scorpius wanting _more._

Al had been impatient for Scorpius to return after his work meeting, he admitted, and promptly fed him little pink macarons and poured him an iced mocha. He told Scorpius that his family was due for a visit very soon, and that he would be sure to introduce them after they arrived and had their customary breakfast at Al’s place. Scorpius, of course, had been delighted at the idea of meeting Al’s family and learning more about the whole lot. 

They hadn’t yet gone on another outing, spending time together in the bakery instead, but planned on venturing outside the city walls and biking until they found a place for dinner. Scorpius was looking forward to that day, whenever it would happen, and hoped he could wrap up his work before he had to return to London. 

“Do you know him well? The Potter boy?”

The voice of the tea shop woman broke Scorpius out of his reverie. 

“Yes,” he said quickly, snapping back to attention and trying to not appear that he’d been off daydreaming about Al—“I’m sorry, what did you say? Who?”

“Potter. Sugar Dust’s owner.”

Scorpius rubbed at his eyes. Tugged at his ears. Lightly slapped his own cheek. The name _Potter_ was not unfamiliar to him. At all. And yet—

“ _Al_ Potter? Are you quite sure?”

“Of course I’m sure! I see him down at the market all the time, picking up ingredients for his many concoctions and confections. He’s always a bit cold. Aloof Potter, that’s what we call him around here. I forget his full first name, though. Something silly. Albino or Albatross or—”

“Albus,” Scorpius said flatly, staring past the tea shop owner. _Albus Potter._ One of the most famous children—now grown adult—of the wizarding world. Son of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley. 

“That’s it, yes. Albus. Although I prefer Aloof...”

Yes, Scorpius knew all about Albus Potter. Or, he did when he was eleven or twelve and actually cared about that sort of thing. Before the Daily Prophet ran wild with stories of him being an evil child and his parents Death Eaters. Before his father and mother, right before putting him on the scarlet train his first year, made a last-minute decision to flee King's Cross and never let Scorpius see the Hogwarts Express again, let alone attend the premier school for magical education. Before everything in his life went contrary to plan and he became a lonely shut-in unable to recognize a fellow wizard.

It was as if a light had been turned on. Al—Albus—was just as magical as he was. He ran a bakery that seemed too small on the outside and impossibly large on the inside because it _was._ The food he seemed to be the work of sorcery because it _was._ Albus was doing magic, quite regularly it seemed, and probably setting off bangs and booms and Merlin knew what else in the process. It was Albus who was regularly sending owl post, and Albus who had somehow conjured or summoned a damn _unicorn_ to run through York. 

And here Scorpius was, smitten and oblivious. An absolute idiot. 

Scorpius jumped out of his seat, the legs of his chair scratching against the floor and making the tea shop owner wince. He apologized, fished some Muggle notes from his bag and threw them onto the table and hurried out, sketchbook of worthless notes clenched in his hand. 

The cobbled road was dark that evening, lit only by the few street lamps lining the path. But Scorpius’s legs and feet knew where to take him, even if his brain wasn’t working properly but instead bouncing back and forth from thoughts of Al and what little he knew of Albus Potter. 

Panting and angry, Scorpius found himself outside Sugar Dust’s door in no time at all. He looked up at the swaying sign and then up higher at one of the small, illuminated windows on the upper level. A pocket of soft orange against the dark brick exterior and deeply purple night sky. Albus was home. 

Scorpius pushed at the door but found it locked. He pressed his face to the glass and, though the room was dark save for one solitary Edison bulb swinging over the register, saw movement behind the counter in the shape of Albus’s only coworker. 

Scorpius rapped on the door perhaps a little too aggressively. 

Then, Fabiola was there, holding the door open for him, her purse slung over one shoulder and her apron over the other. She gave him a bewildered look. 

“Scorpius! What are you doing here so late?” 

“Is Al—Albus here?”

“He’s upstairs. I was just locking up—”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course—” 

And then Scorpius pushed past her, mumbled an apology and headed for the narrow stairs leading to the top level. Fabiola shook her head and wished him goodnight, her duties apparently done for the day, and headed out, the door closing with a _click_ behind her. 

Scorpius practically ran up the steps, taking two at a time and almost fumbling once. He stopped at the small oak door at the top, taking a moment to appreciate that he’d never had the nerve to come here before, and knocked. Hard. 

“ALBUS POTTER!” he bellowed. “ALBUS—”

The door was wrenched open and there stood Albus, in only a thin t-shirt and joggers, frowning.

“What the f—”

Scorpius pushed past him and into Albus’s living quarters. 

It wasn’t a particularly big space, but it wasn’t small either. It seemed larger than what would fit over the bakery, and Scorpius suspected another extension charm. To the left, there was a small white kitchenette with a counter and a barstool and a refrigerator. Something was baking in the oven, if the pleasant aroma of a home-cooked meal was any indication. A small window flanked by hanging plants sat just above the sink. 

Adjacent to the kitchen was a sitting area with a handsome cognac leather sofa. The exposed brick downstairs was present on the upper landing here, too, but the other walls were painted a dark bottle green. An antique lamp on an end table bathed the room in soft light. Floating shelves were adorned with several photos and books and artwork, and a large, cream rug sat on the hardwood floor. Potted green plants sat in corners and on windowsills. There was a door to the left of the room and another to the right, and Scorpius guessed that one lead to a bedroom and the other a bathroom. Directly in front of the sofa was worn coffee table, and on top of that, a wand. 

Scorpius rounded on Albus, who was still at the doorway, his lips parted in surprise. 

“What do you think you’re playing at?” Scorpius asked, trying to conceal with anger the hurt he was feeling. Albus looked utterly bewildered. 

“What the _hell_ do you mean?”

“You’re Albus Potter,” Scorpius remarked. He hated the way his voice cracked with emotion when he said it. 

In frustration he threw his sketchbook at Albus, but not being very coordinated, it’s trajectory fell short and the pad of paper landed just before Albus’s feet. Albus stared at it. 

“Er, I’m well aware. And you’re Scorpius Malfoy.”

Scorpius looked at him incredulously. 

“You—you’ve been keeping this from me! Your true identity!” Scorpius was well aware of how shrill he sounded, but he hardly cared. 

Albus barked out a laugh, which only made Scorpius angrier. 

“My _true identity?_ Scorpius, what’s gotten into you—” and Scorpius took a step back when Albus came forward and reached for him. Albus looked hurt and lowered his arm. “You’re, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” Scorpius said, crossing his arms in front of him. “For weeks—months!—I’ve been here trying to figure out who is doing magic in front of Muggles. And it turns out that the one person who I’ve been spending all of my time with is a wizard!” Scorpius felt his eyes sting. 

“Scorpius, I—I honestly thought you knew.”

“What?” Scorpius sputtered. “How could I possibly know—”

“Not to sound like the world’s biggest prat right now, but my family’s only been in every other issue of the Daily Prophet for years.”

Scorpius considered this. Surely any magical person in Europe would know the Potters, then…

“I don’t read the paper,” he said truthfully. “I haven’t picked up an issue since I was maybe twelve years old. I wouldn’t know you past that age.” He took in Albus as he’d known him for the last couple months. The scruff. The tattoos. The moody demeanor. Beneath all that, he reasoned, he _did_ look like the Boy Who Lived.

_And I’m afraid I don’t know you now._

Scorpius felt defeated. He must’ve seemed calmer as a result, because Albus was cautiously approaching him again. Scorpius stood still. 

When Albus was directly in front of him, he rested his hands on Scorpius’s shoulders, leaned up, and gently pressed his lips just under the outer corner of Scorpius’s right eye, and then his left, kissing away the hot tears that Scorpius hadn’t noticed had collected there until that moment. 

“Scorpius, I truly had no idea that _you_ had no idea of who I am. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Scorpius believed him. He took a deep breath and nodded. 

“Let’s talk. You can ask me anything.”

Scorpius nodded again, and Albus led him over to the sofa. They sat down and Albus took Scorpius’s hands in his own. Scorpius cleared his throat.

“So you’re Albus Potter.”

“Yes.”

“You went to Hogwarts?”

“Yes.”

“What house?”

“Slytherin.”

“Wow.”

“I know.”

“I mean— _wow._ ” Scorpius let out a low whistle. And then frowned as a thought fully sunk in. “You’re Harry Potter’s son.”

“Don’t tell me you want his autograph,” Albus sighed. 

“Not at all,” Scorpius scoffed. “I mean, hats off to him for saving the world or whatever, but your dad and his stupid Department have reprimanded and fined me so many times that I’ve probably personally funded him a fancy new office chair.”

Albus laughed and squeezed Scorpius’s hands.

“Really?”

“Yes! The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office reports directly to him, and they’re always on my back—I work for the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, if you didn’t figure that out—for doing harmless things like making my bike fly. I actually try to annoy your dad at least once a year to make up for it—but maybe I shouldn’t be gloating—”

“No, no, please tell me!” Albus’s face was alight with what Scorpius could describe only as mischievous glee.

“Okay, um, for example, last year I charmed all the inter-Ministry memos to zoom toward your dad and poke him in the face until he opened them and directed them to the right person.”

“That was _you?_ He complained about that for months! Thousands of little parchment airplanes kept creeping behind his glasses and getting him in the eyeballs. I had a good laugh at that—”

“We’re getting off topic,” Scorpius said abruptly. And he tugged his hands away from Albus to play with the hem of his shirt. “I’m supposed to be asking about _you._ ”

“Right. Go on.”

“Okay,” Scorpius swallowed, “When did you know who I was? And what do you know? And—and how are you still my friend?”

“Scorpius—how can you—okay, let’s go in order. I knew who you were not long after you told me your name. I thought I had heard ‘Malfoy’ before, and later that night I was meeting my sister. I asked her if I was right in thinking that our family knew the Malfoys and she confirmed it. So I wrote my mum and I asked her if she knew you, or of you, and she said she did, barely. She told me that your father and mine have, er, a colorful history of hating each other. That you were a popular gossip topic years ago but that your family sort of… disappeared. I asked what the gossip was, and she told me and I’m not going to repeat it here because it’s obviously rubbish.

“Anyway, that’s really all I knew. Until you started coming around more and I learned other things. Like that you’re a massive geek and funny and a little awkward. That you have a serious addiction to sugar and possibly caffeine. And that you were hiding something.”

“I haven’t been hiding—”

“You never told me you were a wizard.”

“I couldn’t! The Statute of Secrecy—”

“But I’m a wizard, too. And I thought you knew that, which I was wrong about, obviously. But I had good reason to think you weren’t being all that subtle. I mean, the first day you came in, you left Knuts on the counter as a tip. I thought you were trying to tell me—”

“No, I’m just unbelievably stupid,” Scorpius groaned, remembering his missing coins. “And apparently shit at my job. I can’t even tell when a wizard is right in front of my face—”

“To be fair,” Albus said, smirking, “you were usually staring at my arse. “

“What?” Scorpius sputtered again. “What? I—I—okay, well—it’s very nice! You can’t really blame me—”

“Ha!” Albus laughed. Scorpius covered his face in his hands. “I knew it.”

“Merlin, I am _so_ stupid.” 

“If it makes you feel better, I thought you were being covert. I thought you wanted the wizard thing to go unsaid. Like you wanted to live as a Muggle or something.” Scorpius uncovered his face and looked at Albus. 

“I thought _you_ were the Muggle, because I’m incredibly daft, apparently.”

“You’re not,” Albus said, and he took Scorpius’s hands again. Scorpius didn’t pull away. “It’s not like I volunteered a lot of information about myself, did I? Go on, ask me more.”

“Okay,” Scorpius said, letting out a long exhale. “Does anyone else know you’re a wizard? Anyone in York, I mean?”

“Just Fabiola.”

“Is Fabiola a witch?”

“No, but she has a brother who’s a wizard. She’s no threat.”

Scorpius nodded. 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Doesn’t the Ministry track us? Where we live? There may be others here. I’ve always thought the woman who runs the spice shop a few blocks away was a witch...”

“No,” Scorpius said, shaking his head. “Not so much anymore. There are settlements, sure, where we know a large concentration of wizards and witches live—like Upper Flagley near here—but not in the larger cities. York, London, Leeds, it’s harder to know how many of us are in those places. We usually live in villages where we can stick together.”

“Except me,” Albus said, giving a sort of sad smile. “I’d rather hide in plain sight.”

“Me too,” Scorpius said, smiling back. They looked at each other for a while before Scorpius, feeling the back of his neck heat up, looked elsewhere for a distraction. His eyes landed on the wand on the table. He thought of his own usually secretly stored in his bag and at the moment hidden discreetly in the wand pocket of his trousers. Albus noticed his shift in gaze. 

“Do you need to, er, inspect my wand or—”

Scorpius shook his head. The use of _Prior Incantato_ was often used to confirm the last spells used in illegal or suspicious activity. 

“No, that’s not going to be necessary.” He felt the sofa shift and turned to see Albus looking nervous.

“Are you going to report me? Because I’m still unsure of what I’ve done wrong—”

“Albus, no. I’m not going to report you.” There was a sigh of relief and Albus settled back onto the sofa, looking a tad more comfortable.

And then he sprang up.

“Let me show you something.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to think that you’re in the dark. Let me show you something.”

Scorpius looked around. Albus had clearly been in for the night. 

“Aren’t you busy? I kind of just barged in here…”

“I was making dinner. Which you’re now invited to share, by the way. I’ve got a pasta al forno cooking.” 

Scorpius’s mouth watered at the thought. 

“Only if you insist—”

“You know I do,” Albus said, and he grabbed Scorpius’s hand and led them to the door and down the stairs. They were back in the bakery and went behind the counter. With a look over his shoulder at Scorpius, Albus pushed the saloon doors open and took them into the kitchen. 

Scorpius stood there, wide-eyed. There was _definitely_ an undetectable extension charm going on here… and loads of other magic. Ovens and fridges and freezers and proving boxes sat cramped together. Large bags of flour were levitating and pouring seemingly of their own accord careful measurements onto countertops and into industrial-sized mixing bowls. Elsewhere, rolling pins were flattening dough on stainless-steel tables. In another corner, large wooden spoons were stirring the contents of giant cauldrons while eggs cracked and dripped over them and galaxy spirals of sugar soared from glass jars on the walls to sprinkle inside. There were so many tools and pots and pans and ingredients moving through the air, clanking and whirring and stirring, that Scorpius was having a hard time focusing on just one thing. It was like every household and cooking spell Scorpius had ever read about was being utilized and working in harmony with the Muggle tools and appliances. 

“This is my nightly prep,” Albus said. “It’s how I get everything done. I—or Fabiola—bake a few things in the morning, and, well, duplicate them.”

“You really _are_ a wizard,” Scorpius said. Albus gave a hollow laugh.

“This is the only thing I’m good at, really, and there are a few hiccups here and there—” 

“It’s amazing,” Scorpius said, in awe as he watched measuring spoons fly toward bins of cinnamon and nutmeg and vials of vanilla and help themselves to perfectly-portioned amounts. “What’s happening over there, though?” He was looking at a quiet corner of the kitchen, where there was only one table, a covered bowl with some dough, and a rolling pin. 

“Oh! I’ll show you,” Albus said, pulling Scorpius by his hand toward the space. “This is where I test something new—usually for you—and don’t want to use magic. I was going to try a new loaf to bake for you tomorrow if you stopped by.”

“Well, I definitely will now,” Scorpius said, knocking their shoulders together. Albus grinned at him. 

“Dinner?” he asked.

“Yes, please.”

And Albus let go of his hand, gave a loud clap, and the magical activity happening in the back kitchen came to a halt. Scorpius briefly gaped at the wandless magic and watched the pots and pans and spoons and ingredients begin to pack themselves away. For all his insecurities about spellwork, Albus was quickly proving to be truly extraordinary. But before Scorpius could throw him a compliment, Albus had seized his hand again and pulled them back toward the swinging doors and up the stairs. 

The flat smelled of garlic and sauce and tomato. Albus motioned for Scorpius to sit at the lone barstool at the counter and took his place on the other side. He put on oven gloves and took the pasta bake out of the oven. While it cooled on the counter, he took out plates and silverware from a cupboard and from a wooden rack on the wall, a dusty dark bottle of wine.

“Conterno Monfortino?” he asked, swirling the bottle. 

‘Why, yes,” Scorpius said, impressed, and he watched Al procure two glasses. Scorpius withdrew his wand from his pocket and waved it. The cork shot out and landed in the sink, allowing Albus to pour a healthy amount of berry-red wine into each glass. 

The wine was extremely aged, both sweet and smoky, and deliciously crisp. Scorpius watched Albus bring out the last part of the meal, a wrapped loaf of bread that he warmed in a hot pan of butter with several cubes of gruyere. The result was airy, cheesy, salty heaven that Albus drizzled in olive oil and set to the side of Scorpius’s now-filled plate. They clinked their glasses together and tucked in. 

As they ate and drank, Scorpius seated on the stool and Albus across and leaning his elbows on the counter, Albus told Scorpius of how he sometimes traveled for new ideas and recipes and often used ingredients that could be found only in Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, or other wizarding centers, when experimenting. When he couldn’t travel, he owl-ordered in bulk. He further confirmed Scorpius’s suspicions that the bakery’s confections were indeed laced with magic when he confessed that he used moondew in his tea, honeywater in his syrups, and diluted Alihotsy in his muffins. Once, he caused long lines rounding the block of his shop because he introduced a Butterbeer-flavored cheesecake that sent the Muggles into a frenzy. 

“So you’ve been experimenting with spells too, right?” Scorpius asked in between bites. Although he was thoroughly enjoying his dinner—and Albus—Scorpius had to at least try to remain on the task at hand. “The reports I received that got me this assignment contained complaints of loud bangs. Maybe even an explosion.”

Albus gave a nervous laugh and scratched at the back of his neck. 

“Er, yeah, I do _try_ to do spells other than household ones, and they usually end up a mess. Sometimes I break things or light stuff on fire. I did try to make some food with just magic, and it didn’t work out. Turns out I’m better letting the ingredients prep themselves and then baking the Muggle way.”

At Scorpius’s raised eyebrows, he added, “Of course I experiment only in the shop. Usually in the middle of the night. No one has seen except Fabiola on occasion.”

“And the explosion?”

“Okay, that’s a bit more embarrassing considering it wasn’t even magic that caused it. Well, sort of.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I had somehow duplicated too much sugar dust. I told you I have a few accidents here and there. Well, the sacks kept doubling and doubling, so I tried to slow them down or vanish them—and don’t look at me like that, I know now it’s not that easy to vanish things—and it kept getting worse. All the magic made the kitchen really hot and the next thing I knew the tip of my wand was alight and, well…”

“Well?”

“Well, ignited sugar causes an explosive reaction. That’s just a scientific fact.”

“Your kitchen went boom?”

“My kitchen went boom.”

“Who saw?” 

“It was late. We weren’t open, so just the neighbors. I sent up sparks hoping someone magical  
in the area would help, but no one came. Luckily, someone called for an emergency and the Muggles put it out. I did most of the magic rebuilding after. Took weeks and my family’s help. We worked very discreetly. Lots of charms and wards up, I promise.”

Scorpius laughed. 

“What?” Albus asked, looking slightly offended. 

“It’s just the one big thing I come down here for turned out to be a natural combustion, didn’t it? Wow, this might be the easiest job I’ve had.”

“And yet you had no idea I was a wizard.”

“Oh, whatever,” Scorpius said, and before he asked his next question, he took another sip of wine. “Tell me this: have you ever brought a unicorn to York?”

Albus gave a startled look. 

“Why on earth would I bring a unicorn here?”

Scorpius shrugged and said, “There was a credible report of a unicorn galloping down the street. Well, it could have been floating—”

“Oh!” said Albus. “Oh, that was my sister!”

“Pardon?”

“My sister, Lily. She sent me a message after hearing that half my shop exploded. Her Patronus is a unicorn, go figure,” and he rolled his eyes. “So if anyone needs a stern talking to, it’s her.” He jabbed his fork at another bite of pasta while Scorpius smiled. 

“I’ll make sure to have a write-up copied to your father’s desk by Monday.”

Albus grinned but then said seriously, “Go easy on her. I love her.”

And Scorpius assured that he didn’t really intend to write up anyone and that this was all going to filed away as a minor incident, much to the annoyance of Constance Pickering, and they continued to eat. He felt no need to interrogate Albus any more, and instead they spoke of Scorpius’s job, of Albus’s time at Hogwarts and his hesitancy to tell anyone—magical or Muggle—about his family (to which Scorpius could relate), their fleeting and failed relationships of past, and what could have been had they met many years ago. 

“I wish your parents let you go to Hogwarts,” Albus said after he finished his last bite. There was a warbling sadness in his voice that he tried to conceal with another swig of wine. They were both on their second hearty glass. “I reckon we wouldn’t have been so lonely. Together.”

The intense way Albus looked at him when he said that last word made Scorpius blush. 

“Me too,” Scorpius said quietly. “I would’ve liked that. Being together.”

“But we’re…together _now_ , yes?”

“Looks like,” Scorpius said, and he placed his hand palm up on the counter. An invitation. Albus took it. 

Scorpius looked down, trying not to smile too big. And then, he said, “Can I ask you something else?”

Albus nodded. 

“Why—why did you never want to go out with me?”

“What are you talking about? We go out all the time.”

“I mean, in the evenings. I’d ask you if you wanted to get dinner—or, or go see a film, and you’d always give me some excuse…”

“Oh,” Albus said, smiling slightly. “Right.”

“I thought maybe you were… going on dates...with someone else.”

“What? No!” Albus shut his eyes and took a breath. His grip on Scorpius’s hand tightened. “I always made an excuse because—because—”

“Because?”

“Because I knew that if I took you to dinner or spent any more time with you at night, I’d just bring you back here and, well, you know,” Albus said very fast, the last bit coming out in a mumble. 

Scorpius could feel his heart pounding away in his chest. To hear Albus admit that wanted him like _that_ —

“I want to be your friend,” Albus went on. “I want to be the best friend you’ve ever had, you must know this, but I want to be more, too.”

Scorpius was nodding along, allowing Albus to continue. But Albus apparently didn’t need the encouragement; the words just kept tumbling out. He had let go of Scorpius’s hand to fiddle with his wine glass before taking another sip.

“I know that there’s a socially acceptable time to say what I really want to say, so I’m going to hold back for now—but I need you to know that this isn’t just a friendship for me, or, or even me desperately wanting to shag you. When we met, it was like stumbling on something treasured I had misplaced. And, when we’re together—it’s like time stops. The more I see you, the more I want to see you. Every moment is thrilling and strange and familiar and just—good.

“I would be happy if we did nothing else besides what we’re doing. I consider your friendship a gift, please understand that. But I also want—so badly—to see where this _could_ go, and to give you—everything. If you want it.”

Scorpius didn’t have the words to reply, as never did he think there would be someone out there in the universe for him or that he could be this happy. So, silently, he slid off his stool and come around the counter, determinedly holding Albus’s gaze. He took the glass from Albus and set it down, and then took Albus in his arms, feeling the rough scruff of his cheek pressed into his own, and tried to convey his very strong feelings that way. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the rawness of what he’d told Scorpius, but Albus was very flushed and very warm and very receptive. He fiercely hugged Scorpius back. 

“I want to see where this goes, too,” Scorpius said, words finally coming to him and his lips brushing the shell of Albus’s ear. He was breathing in Albus’s hair. He could feel a buzz of energy spreading through his chest and past his arms, into the crooks of his elbows, and out to his fingertips. Albus seemed to be trembling. “You’re my best friend, Albus. And more, I think. _So_ , so much more.”

“How do you do it?” Albus asked, his voice shaking. He pulled back slightly and pressed their foreheads together. “How can you make me feel like this?”

Scorpius tilted his head, admired the freckles running down Albus’s nose, and whispered, “Magic.”

And then he brought his lips to Albus’s mouth. Albus pressed into him, kissing him back deeply, and Scorpius lost himself in the taste and feel of it. 

 

When they broke apart a moment later, breathless, they laughed. 

“Who knew I was capable of such sentimental claptrap?” Albus snorted, wiping his eyes. Scorpius stifled a giggle and tried to compose himself. 

“I don’t know,” he said, a bit dopey. “I’ve always thought you sweet.”

Albus snorted again. “Right.”

“Bit grumpy, but sweet all the same.”

Albus just rolled his eyes and then got the wine bottle, swirling it gently in Scorpius’s direction. 

“Shall we have more?”

“Yes, please,” Scorpius said as he held out his glass. Albus poured him a healthy serving and they clinked their glasses together. 

Albus was staring at Scorpius over the rim of his glass. 

“I like you a lot, in case you didn’t catch on,” he said, winking. 

“When did you first—”

“Since the moment I first saw you.”

“I was on the ground because I fell off my bicycle.”

“You were a beautiful mess.”

“And then I bothered you in your bakery for weeks.”

“You made every day so much brighter.”

“Well, I like you, too, Albus. Quite a bit. If you haven’t caught on.”

They smiled at each other. Albus reached out and hooked a finger in one of Scorpius’s belt loops and and tugged him closer.

“I love hearing you say my name.”

They each clumsily set their glasses back down, sloshing the liquid a bit. But they hardly cared because then they were just two men kissing again, tongues finding their way into each other’s mouths and tasting that dark, sweet wine. 

Everything seemed ablaze as they swayed together. Albus went to kiss Scorpius’s neck and up the column of his throat. Scorpius groaned and pulled Albus’s hips closer, cupped his backside. 

“Shit,” Albus breathed. He returned to Scorpius’s mouth and then pulled back to ask, “More?”

“More,” Scorpius agreed. “Now.” 

He pulled Albus out of the kitchen and pushed him toward the nearest soft surface, the leather sofa in the middle of the room.

Albus turned and pushed Scorpius backwards into the seat and tugged again at his trousers. Scorpius fumbled with his belt buckle and the zip before lifting himself and sliding the pants down past his knees. Albus was undressing as well, pulling his shirt over his head and shucking his joggers. He climbed on top of Scorpius and went right back to kissing him. Scorpius was absolutely losing it, arching up to slide himself against Albus, skin on skin, and letting his hands explore the rest. 

He lightly dragged his nails down Albus’s shoulder blades and paused kissing Albus’s lips to kiss the tattoos on Albus’s shoulder—a pair of dragons—that were always concealed by a shirt. He ran his fingers across Albus’s chest before kissing the hair there and inwardly marveling at how wonderful Albus was. 

“You’re so—Merlin—fuck,” Albus panted. Scorpius had started biting and sucking on the tender spot above his collarbone. Albus slid his hands under Scorpius’s shirt, angled his hips, and moved against him.

And together they clung tight and rocked until they were sighing each other’s names. 

 

Albus was sweaty in Scorpius’s arms yet remained there for some time after they were done. He was pressing soft kisses to Scorpius’s forehead and cheeks and stroking his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah,” Scorpius said, dazed. He kissed Albus’s chin. “Really okay.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Scorpius was shaking with silent giggles. 

“What?” Albus asked. He played with Scorpius’s hair and shifted on top of him. 

“It’s just—that was—the best I’ve ever—well, with anyone, really—and we didn’t even, _you know_ —”

“You’re very cute after you come.”

“Don’t tease me.”

“Do you want to— _you know?_ ” 

“Merlin, yes, but give me a minute.”

Albus pulled at Scorpius’s earlobe with his teeth. 

“Mhmm, you’ve got exactly one minute.”

Scorpius shuddered. 

“Do you want to—to—lead—or—?”

“Nope.” Albus bit down on Scorpius’s neck before kissing it again.

“Oh, okay—that’s—that’s good.” Scorpius was finding it very hard to concentrate with Albus’s now shuffling around and reaching down to grasp him. “Should we—maybe—perhaps—switch positions—”

“Nope,” Albus said again, and he reached far back behind him, almost losing his balance, and grabbed his wand off the coffee table. 

“But— _oh._ ”

Albus had positioned Scorpius right where he wanted him and used his wand to take care of a different kind of prep work before sinking down and kissing Scorpius soundly. 

He was slow and purposeful and pulled the most gorgeous faces every time Scorpius brought him back down onto his lap and then lifted him up again. He tenderly kissed Scorpius’s lips and gasped into his ear that he was beautiful and brilliant. 

And although he’d never say it aloud for fear of looking foolish, Scorpius had never felt so wanted, so cherished, so loved.

* * *

They had made it to the bed somehow. At some point in the evening. They’d had sex again, with Albus giving Scorpius his all and Scorpius moaning loudly into the rumpled sheets beneath him. 

They were tangled up in each other by early morning, naked, thighs wedged together and arms curved around backs. Scorpius had never held someone in bed before, or had been held, and when he woke, blissfully happy and warm, he found Albus blinking back at him and smiling shyly. 

“Hi,” he croaked, his voice heavy with morning sleep. “How’re you?”

“Miserable, darling,” Albus said back, grinning. “Perfectly wretched as usual.”

“Well it’s nice to have something you can count on.”

Albus chuckled as Scorpius began tracing patterns on his arm and chest, looking at the tattoos he’d missed this whole time. Oh, how he should’ve seen Albus without his shirt ages ago. He loved the dragons, the owl, and what he was pretty sure was a Deluminator. 

“Stay with me,” Albus murmured. He ran a hand through Scorpius’s hair. 

“I wasn’t planning on moving from this bed anytime soon.”

“No, I mean—stay here, in York. With me.”

Scorpius wiped the sleep from his eyes and then stared at Albus, trying to gauge if he was serious. 

Albus looked away, apparently embarrassed. 

“Or not _with me._ But near me, if you’d like. I want to be near you. With you. Please.”

And Scorpius, who had never been propositioned by anyone for anything that wasn’t casual—certainly nothing with an implicit promise of indefiniteness—couldn’t quite comprehend what he was hearing. 

“You want to be… with me?”

“Was I not clear or—?” 

“But… why?”

“Er, have you met you?”

Scorpius couldn’t help himself and kissed Albus sweetly.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. 

“You’re serious?”

“Very.” And they kissed again and again. 

A chirping sound made Scorpius pull away. He looked out toward the lone window in Albus’s bedroom, expecting to see a bird rising with the sun, but saw just a dusty darkness. 

“My alarm,” Albus explained. “It’s coming from my wand. It’s just before six.”

“You’ll have to go downstairs soon,” Scorpius said, a little disappointed that they couldn’t cuddle more. 

“Not until six thirty or so,” Albus said. “Fabiola will open today and get things started. Or, I hope she will. What day is it even?”

Scorpius buried his face into the crook of Albus’s neck and hugged him tighter, not really caring when and where they existed in time and space. This was perfection no matter what. 

The chirping continued, and Albus groaned.

“I need to get my wand,” he said, prying Scorpius’s arm off him and struggling to get up. He kissed Scorpius and padded out of the bedroom, returning seconds later with his now-silent wand in hand and the joggers from the night before. 

Scorpius stretched and watched Albus pull on the pants. Albus didn’t bother putting on his shirt, which Scorpius clearly appreciated. 

“I’ll make breakfast,” Albus said, and went to kiss Scorpius again. 

“Can I make coffee?” Scorpius asked, thinking about how he’d like to fiddle with all those buttons on one of the machines. 

“You’ll have to go downstairs,” said Albus. “Use the cappuccino machine if you’d like or make an industrial pot.”

“Cappuccino it is. Now I need my clothes…”

But Albus had done a quick _Accio_ and summoned some boxers and a shirt from a chest of drawers. 

“Go now before we open up.”

Scorpius pulled everything on, kissed Albus again, and headed out. 

He was halfway down the narrow staircase when heard it. A voice. Or several. He took another step down, peered out into the bakery, and froze. 

Sitting there huddled together at one of the tables, looking bleary-eyed and grumbling, was Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, and two of their three children. 

Four sets of eyes were now looking right at him. Harry’s mouth fell open. Ginny looked shocked. The young man, who Scorpius presumed was James, was looking at Scorpius in confusion. And the young woman with wavy red hair, who Scorpius guessed was Lily, was grinning. 

“Um, uh—”

“Scorpius!”

Fabiola had walked backwards into the bakery from behind the kitchen’s saloon doors. She was holding a tray full of muffins and chocolate croissants. 

A slam from above made Scorpius jump. Albus was bounding down the steps, pulling a shirt over his head, shoes untied, and shouting, “Sorry! Sorry!” 

He grabbed Scorpius by the arm and whispered into his ear. 

“I am _so_ sorry—I completely forgot—”

“Al,” Harry said, clearing his throat and standing up. “Good morning.”

Ginny, clearly amused, was looking back and forth between her husband and Albus and Scorpius, who was still frozen on the staircase. 

“You have us come here mad early only to _forget_ about us?” asked James, his hand pressed close to his heart. “I’m offended.”

“Shut up, James,” Albus said. 

“Yeah, James, shut up,” said Lily. She was accepting a mug of coffee from Fabiola who was pouring everyone a round from a steaming pot. 

James smirked. Harry cleared his throat again and walked toward the staircase, stopped, and held out his hand. Scorpius glanced down at it before shaking his head clear and taking the last several steps down. He grasped Harry’s hand firmly and shook it. 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter.” _Officially, at least,_ Scorpius thought, as he’d received several letters and memos from Harry’s office over the years and seen the man in the Ministry halls on occasion. 

“Call me Harry,” Harry said. “Might as well keep everything casual, yeah?” He smiled when he said this and gave Scorpius an appraising sort of look. Scorpius looked down at himself and groaned. 

He had forgotten that he was wearing Albus’s underpants and shirt and nothing else. Albus finally pushed past him on the stairs, resting a reassuring hand on the small of Scorpius’s back for just a moment, to join his family. 

“Sorry everyone,” he said. He went to kiss his mother on the cheek and hug his sister. “Completely slipped my mind.”

“I can see why,” said Lily. “You did tell me he was cute, after all.”

Scorpius remained on the last step of the staircase, standing awkwardly next to Harry, who was looking down at his shoes. 

Outside one of the windows, Scorpius could see the sun slowly rising. 

“Didn’t know you were even dating, Al!” said James, who’d jumped up to clap his brother on the back. Albus rolled his eyes. Scorpius could see that even though James and Albus resembled each other slightly, they were very different. 

“Sorry I don’t update you with every detail of my life,” he said sarcastically. 

“I knew!” said Lily, who had flipped her hair over her shoulder and was looking around the room, pleased with herself. “Al told me he was ‘possibly, maybe, hopefully’ seeing someone.” Lily had lowered her voice in a silly impression of Albus’s surly one. 

“You did?” asked Scorpius, smiling brightly.

Ginny snorted into her coffee. Albus shot her a look and she put her cup down and raised her hands in mock surrender. 

“Sorry, honey, I’m laughing at your sister.” 

Albus relaxed and Ginny nodded at Scorpius. 

“Nice to meet you, Scorpius.”

“Likewise,” said Scorpius. And he walked over to shake Ginny’s hand, too, ignoring the snickering coming from James, who was now questioning Albus about his choice in menswear. Scorpius didn’t mind though, he figured he looked silly in Albus’s boxers, which were patterned with various little broomsticks, and would probably also find humor in someone in his situation. 

“Er, how about we let Scorpius get dressed upstairs and I’ll make us all breakfast?” Albus asked. He looked back at Fabiola, who was setting our pastries behind the glass counter, for support. 

“I’ll make more coffee!” she said, and Albus gave her a grateful sort of look. 

“Sounds good, Al,” said Harry, who’d begun walking around the bakery and admiring the decor. Ginny nodded as well and gave Scorpius a wink. 

“As long as Scorpius joins us, yes?” Lily nodded fervently beside her. 

“Um, sure, if you’ll have me—”

“Then yes,” said James before throwing himself back down on a chair. “Make us those blintzes, Al?”

Albus agreed and headed for kitchen while Fabiola took a seat at the table to talk to the Potters. Scorpius made his way back upstairs, his ears burning. 

He collapsed on Albus’s couch and covered his face with one of the throw pillows that had been tossed on the floor during the activities the night before. He groaned loudly into it, remembering both the amazing feelings he had felt then and the sheer embarrassment he’d felt just moments ago. 

He lifted the pillow from his face only when he heard the door creak open. 

“Hey,” said Albus. He was looking a bit frazzled. “I am _so_ sorry about what happened down there. I forgot they were coming—and I always have them come early before anyone else in case my dad is recognized—and I would’ve never had you meet them like that, so please don’t hate me—”

“Do you think they hate _me_?” Scorpius asked. He fished around on the floor for yesterday’s clothing. 

“What? Of course not.”

“I’m not sure if I’m what, or who, they’re expecting when it comes to you.”

“I’m pretty sure they weren’t expecting anyone, to be honest. Regardless, they are going to love you just like—well, anyone would, Scorpius. Trust me.” 

Scorpius pulled on his socks. 

“I’m only slightly embarrassed,” he said. “I was worried _you_ were going to be embarrassed of _me,_ ” and he indicated down at his half-dressed state. Albus scoffed. 

“Never. Believe me when I tell you that done loads more ‘embarrassing’ shit than this in my life. But maybe you should put on trousers.”

Scorpius laughed as he found his pants under the coffee table and pulled them on. He buckled his belt and reached under the sofa for his shirt. When he was fully dressed and having pocketed his wand, which had ended up under the coffee table somehow, he looked up to find Albus watching him fondly. 

“What?” he said, tucking in his shirt and straightening his collar.

“Nothing,” Albus said, grinning. “Ready?” He nodded toward the door, all that was out there and what was to come, and held out his hand.

Scorpius took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I love and appreciate all the comments!


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